


Let Me Forget the Sky

by Quickspinner



Series: Let Me Forget the Sky [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 06:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10431507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quickspinner/pseuds/Quickspinner
Summary: The differences between them seem as large as the riven sky, but the cause that unites them turns out to be the least of the bonds between them. The Inquisitor and the Commander’s romance, told in the moments  between, with as little game recap as I can manage.





	1. Prologue: A Bloody Miracle

He felt a slight twinge of sympathy, looking at her lying on the cold stone floor, heavy shackles around her wrist. Unconscious or no, that couldn't be comfortable. But Cullen had long ago learned to bury those twinges. The crackling green light emanating from the girl's left palm was reason enough for the caution.

Girl was the word that came to mind, though Solas had assured him (with a slight sneer of condescension, as usual) that she was older than she looked to his (human, Solas implied) eyes. Actually, Cullen had thought her a boy at first glance given the short, choppy cut of her pale blond hair and her somewhat androgynous face, the curves of her body hidden by her armor and the dim lighting. Her face was a slightly odd assortment of features, still angular in that way all elves seemed to share - prominent cheekbones, a sharply angled line from jaw to chin, high forehead - but all her features rounded off before they quite managed to become sharp. Her nose and chin were blunt rather than pointed, the angle of her jaw just slightly square, and though her cheekbones were prominent her cheeks themselves were rounded rather than hollow. It was that, he supposed, that gave him the impression of youth. That, and her large eyes with their heavy lashes - pale blue, he knew, for she was restless in her sleep and her eyes fluttered open occasionally, reflecting the firelight in that eerie elven way. 

But Solas had assured them that she was a grown woman and a fully trained mage, and his own templar senses agreed that she had the controlled aura of someone who had been out of their apprenticeship for many years. And no child could have created the kind of explosion that had destroyed the Conclave. He had to bite back his reflexive revulsion for mages and the evil they could do, remind himself that he was not that person any more and that there was no proof that the person in front of him was responsible for the death of the Divine.

He had to do this, because Cassandra could not. She was too close to the situation, too emotional, and so he could not afford the luxury of letting his prejudices guide him. He had come down here with this in mind, though there were many demands on his attention, to fix her face in his mind, remind himself she was human (elven), a person and not a monster. As it was he knew he'd have his hands full keeping Cassandra from killing Solas if the mage could not wake this stranger - a task which Solas had strongly hinted was impossible. If she woke at all it would be because the Maker willed it, not because of anything they could do.

And in the meantime they were paralyzed. No answers, no clear path forward, and no Divine to turn to for orders, Leliana and Cassandra both near madness in their grief--if such brutal efficiency could ever be called madness. Maker help them all when those two ran out of work to do. A few days ago that had seemed impossible.

There was a touch of bitterness in Cullen's sigh. He had left Kirkwall to get away from this kind of madness. He had come, after much soul-searching, hoping for a new calling, that he could somehow make his life come back to the path he had intended for it. Instead his path seemed darker than ever, and try as he might he could not find even a shred of the Maker's light in it to guide him.

Abruptly the green light in front of him flared brightly, crackling as the woman arched on the floor, clearly in pain though still unconscious. Across the room, where he sat brooding in the chair that had been provided for him, Solas raised his head from his hand. For a moment the green light burned in the prisoner's hand, and then abruptly faded, as the woman before them took a deep, gasping breath, and spoke.

Cullen didn't recognize the words, but Solas clearly did, taking a step forward and answering in the same tongue.

"Atisha Lavellan," she replied in a voice that sounded not quite all there. "Where is Keeper Deshanna?" She struggled to get up, hampered by her shackled hands, and Solas pulled her up, until she knelt on the stone floor, swaying slightly.

"She's coming," Solas lied. "What happened, _lethallan_?"

"I...don't know..." she said woozily. "I went to the Conclave as the Keeper instructed and then...I don't...remember...where am I?" Her eyes fluttered shut again, her chin falling to her chest.

Solas straightened, sighing through his nose. "Well. The Seeker isn't going to be pleased about that."

"She could be lying," Cullen said doubtfully.

"I don't believe she was aware enough to lie," Solas said, crouching down. Magic flared in his hand as he held it over her. "The good news is this seems to be a more natural sleep...perhaps she will wake again." He glanced up at Cullen. "More likely, she will die. No mortal can pass physically through the fade and survive. I can't even explain how she has survived this long. This must be related." He took the girl's wrist and turned her left hand up to look once more at the glowing mark. "But I can't say how."

"Commander!"

The door behind them banged open and one of Cullen's lieutenants skidded to a stop behind him. "Commander, you're needed in the field. There's another surge of demons coming through the Breach!"

"Maker's breath," Cullen muttered, turning to stride out of the room. "Is there no end?"

"There won't be until the Breach is sealed," Solas said on his heels, following Cullen from the room. "I'll see what I can do."

Cullen grunted, having more on his mind than the apostate's long-winded theories. They needed more than theories to seal this breach, he thought as he shoved his way through the panicking crowd outside, barking orders and rallying what disciplined troops he could find. What they needed was a bloody miracle.


	2. A New Idea

He was certain there must have been a time when life was “normal” but he wasn't sure there was anyone in Thedas who remembered what it was like. First the Blight and the years of upheaval it caused, then the chaos of the mage-templar war, and now...that.

Cullen stood outside of his command tent and stared up at the rift in the sky, glowing a sickly green. Solas said that spirits were being drawn through the rift against their will, the trauma turning them into demons. Cullen respected Solas’ efforts to help, though the mage’s attitude sometimes grated, but it had been difficult enough for Cullen to make some kind of peace with his feelings about mages. It was still too much to ask him to feel sorry for demons, whether they had any choice in the matter or not. A cold, clammy feeling mixed oddly with the perpetual lyrium ache in his gut. He wondered if the demons he’d fought during the battle knew. Could they sense those who had been touched before? Was it a weakness they were drawn to or a warning that he would not be taken easily?

He shook himself from dark thoughts and scolded himself to focus on the things he could change. Cullen had made great progress in trying to put his past behind him, and he could not allow himself to fall back into that place now. Especially not when they might need the rebel mages to close the Breach. 

The thought of an entire horde of mages descending on the camp made his skin crawl despite his efforts to be neutral. Many of those mages had been out of the Circle’s control for some time. There was no knowing how many of them were corrupt. It was easier dealing with individual mages like Solas, Vivienne, and Lavellan, people he could look in the eye and know as more than mages. It was work to control the paranoia that whispered to him in Meredith’s voice when the mages were a faceless group of which he knew little. 

He went his rounds through the soldier’s camp, speaking individually to his lieutenants and making sure to check on the newest set of recruits. They had come trickling in as word of the Inquisition spread, giving various reasons for joining up but all sweeping the camp for a glimpse of the Herald of Andraste as they spoke to him. He answered a few questions--yes, she was Dalish, yes, she was a mage--and deflected others--was she really the Herald, was she as beautiful as Andraste--and wondered what they would think when they met her.

He listened patiently to Rylen’s blistering opinion of Havens logistical disadvantages, an opinion which he shared but, as Commander, couldn't properly voice in such terms. “Threnn is working on it,” he told his second, knowing it would do little to soothe Rylen.

“Threnn is useless,” Rylen snorted. “And that merchant, Segrit or whatever his name is, he's a crook. Half the soldiers are in debt to him already. The only one doing anything about this mess is the Herald. Seems like a little bit of a thing, but I guess she knows how to get things done. Maybe we should've hired a Dalish quartermaster if they all work this fast.”

“Has the Herald spoken to you?” Cullen asked, a little surprised at Rylen's praise. Generally the Knight-Captain was stingy with it.

“Not directly, no,” Rylen admitted. “But every time she comes back to camp she delivers another batch of supplies. If we have to have a Herald of Andraste, I'm glad we got one that doesn't mind getting her hands dirty.” Rylen seemed to hesitate, and Cullen raised his eyebrows. It wasn't like Rylen to hold back.

“How do you want me to handle the camp talk, Ser?” Rylen asked. “The slurs--knife-ear and such, and rumors about the Dalish.”

Cullen frowned. “You’ve been hearing such things?”

“Mostly from the career soldiers,” Rylen told him. “The recruits coming in from the country, they mostly come because of the rumors of the Herald, but the others, the ones who aren’t so starry-eyed, they talk like they always do about women and elves.”

“Make sure you keep me informed about what they’re saying,” Cullen said after a moment of thought. “If there’s any true danger to the Herald, we’ll need to know. On second thought, I’ll speak to Leliana about it, her people are better equipped to follow up on rumors. In the meantime, we’ll make some public examples.”

“Got it,” Rylen grinned. “Knock some heads, do some shouting.”

“Make it clear that kind of talk won’t be tolerated anymore,” Cullen nodded. “I’ll do the same if I hear it. It probably won’t change their minds, but...”

“Don’t care what they think as long as they keep it in their heads,” Rylen shrugged. “As you say, Commander. I’ll take care of it, best I can.”

Cullen nodded and glanced up at the sun. “Carry on, Captain,” he said, shifting his sword to rest more more comfortably on his hip, and turned away, heading into the Chantry for the war council. He was early and therefore a little surprised to find everyone except Lavellan already gathered. He hesitated slightly at the door, but Cassandra tipped her head in invitation and he joined them, closing the door behind him.

“Commander. I’m glad you’re here. Before the Herald arrives, I would like to have a brief discussion regarding appointing an Inquisitor to lead us.”

“Ah--” Cullen looked at Leliana and Josephine for help, but both might as well be wearing Orlesian masks for all the expression they displayed. “I’m sorry, I just assumed…”

“I would not have spent months scouring half of Thedas for the Hero of Ferelden or the Champion of Kirkwall if Most Holy had wanted me to lead this Inquisition,” Cassandra said with a shrug.

“I understand, but surely the situation is different now,” Cullen replied, advancing to his accustomed place at the table. “There is no more time to find someone else.”

“That is not entirely true. For the moment, this council will suffice. What must be done now can be done without an Inquisitor,” Cassandra replied. “There is still time to see if there is someone else more capable.”

“Someone else--” Abruptly Cullen understood. “You can’t mean Lavellan?”

“You disagree?” Leliana asked, her voice, as always, deceptively soft and smooth, giving nothing of her own thoughts away.

Cullen hesitated. "I'm...not sure exactly. She's not--" he paused, collecting his thoughts. "I knew both the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall, as did you, I know."

"I met Hawke only briefly," Leliana demurred.

Cullen gestured acknowledgement. "Even before she was taken by the Wardens, Seriana was a presence. She was only an apprentice but when she walked through the halls, people - mages and templars alike - made room for her without even thinking about it. And Hawke was," he shook his head, "Hawke was like a force of nature. She barely made an effort to hide what she was, but it hardly mattered because even the Knight-Commander was reluctant to take her on, with good reason as it turned out. The Herald is different, she doesn’t have that overpowering charisma. She’s quieter, less noticeable. And she seems...uncertain. Or perhaps just uncommitted."

"Perhaps a little of both," Leliana mused. "It's true that she doesn't have the same confidence or presence as our first choices. But consider the position she is in. I have been doing some checking and the Lavellan clan interacted with humans far more than most Dalish, but she has still found herself in a world - in a religion, even, that is not her own. Perhaps it is well that she is an...unconventional hero. Proof that the Maker can use anyone to his good purposes, as long as the vessel is willing. Perhaps she will stand as a reminder that we are all the Maker's children, and the differences we draw between us are nothing in His eyes." 

Cullen grunted. "Now you're talking publicity and politics. Not my area."

"Have you so low an opinion of my faith?" Leliana asked, a teasing smile tugging her lips beneath her hood.

"No, of course not," Cullen said immediately. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to imply--"

Leliana waved away his apology. "At any rate, there is nothing for us to do but wait and see. I think there is more to her than what we have seen. When she has gotten her footing a little, seen for herself what is at stake here, then we can judge the truth." 

"I believe Leliana is right," Josephine put in. "There is also this: because the Dalish are so insular, she is without many of the biases that most of us are burdened with. Mage, templar, Orlesian, Ferelden, these distinctions mean less to her than they do to us.”

“That is true,” Cassandra said drily. “For the most part, the Dalish hate all humans equally.” 

“Many of them with good reason,” Leliana put in.

Josephine shrugged. “Yet she has not rejected this whole operation out of hand. She handled her first brush with nobility rather well, if a bit more sarcastically than I would prefer. But then, she is not the only one among us with that problem." She raised an eyebrow at Cullen, who merely rolled his eyes back at her. Josephine smiled and continued thoughtfully, "Of course we know very little about the Dalish and there is so much variation between clans, it is hard to say anything with certainty, but commonly there are very few mages permitted in any single clan. I do think she is too young to be the clan's Keeper, nor do I think they would send their leader into such danger. However, from speaking to her, I believe it is very likely that she was apprenticed to the Keeper, and next in line to lead the clan. If so, she is no stranger to responsibility or leadership, which is promising." 

"Hopefully that means she will be comfortable leading a team in the field," Cullen said thoughtfully. "The Dalish must field small units by necessity, so surely she has experience in that area, though she may not be used to coordinating with larger forces."

"She is a capable enough fighter, I will grant her that," Cassandra observed. "Though she may yet prove too difficult to work with. She was even prickly with Solas.”

"The Dalish don't have a high opinion of city elves," Leliana pointed out. "And Solas can be a bit...prickly himself."

"Very true," Cassandra conceded with a small nod. “And I must say that her interactions with civilians so far have been considerably less antagonistic than her responses to us.” 

Leliana's soft tone was sober, almost sad. "Consider, also, that the first thing we did was clap her in irons and accuse her of the murder of hundreds. She is a mage, and an elf - a Dalish elf at that. I doubt she believes there is any justice to be found for her in a Chantry trial. She has no choice but to remain with us and do as we ask, for now. If she tries to leave Chancellor Roderick will have whatever remaining Chantry forces he can gather hunting her. But we must win her to our cause if she is to lead us, even as a figurehead."

Cassandra sighed impatiently. "It is useless to speculate more. We will do what we must, and we will all have to adapt as the situation evolves. We simply don't know enough - about anything. What happened at the Conclave, the Breach, the Herald. We can do little until we have more information. All I ask is that you all observe her and consider whether she may be fit for the role of Inquisitor.”

“Is that really our plan?” Cullen asked incredulously. “Wait and see?”

“We will not sit idly by,” Cassandra said, a bit tartly. “There is more than enough to be done before we are secure enough to make any major moves.”

“True enough,” Josephine said, and at that moment, the door opened, and Lavellan stepped inside. “Ah, Herald. Welcome,” Josephine smiled and bobbed her head slightly, as if they hadn’t just all been discussing Lavellan behind her back. “Shall we begin?”

With this new idea in mind, Cullen studied Lavellan as the meeting went on, as covertly as he could manage. She was serious and thoughtful, soft-spoken but decisive. Capable, he thought, but hardly inspiring. He remembered that flash of humor from her that had caught him so off guard the last time they’d spoken, the lopsided smile that had completely disarmed him, and wondered if that momentary connection was a sign of something more. Eventually Josephine caught him distracted, and he put the matter aside to focus on what was in front of him. All in all, he thought as the meeting ended and he moved toward the door, they’d gotten a surprising amount of work done. His mind flew back to the thousand other concerns he had to manage, and he was already a million miles away when a quiet question stopped him in his tracks.

“Commander, may I speak with you?”

Cullen halted, jolted back to reality. “Yes?” he said rather stupidly, trying to bring his focus down to the elven woman in front of him. 

“I don't want to keep you,” she said, gesturing to the door. “Shall we walk while we talk?”

“Of course,” Cullen said, resuming his step but pausing to allow Lavellan through the door first with a slight, habitual bow. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“That is actually what I wanted to ask you,” said Lavellan, pausing just a breath to let him come along side her as they moved into the hallway. “I understand we’re having trouble getting the wounded tended to. Is there anything we can do about it?”

“Not unless you have a bevvy of healing mages secreted away somewhere,” Cullen replied grimly. “The healers we have on hand are doing their best, magical and otherwise, but there simply aren't enough of them to deal with the refugees and our soldiers.”

“I don't, sadly,” Lavellan sighed through her nose. “My clan would not part with our healers even temporarily, and my talents don't lie in that direction. Our Second was a much more talented healer so I didn't pursue it, and while I know some of the herbalist healers’ crafts by necessity, what I know is more about supplies and preparation than application. But perhaps I can review the poultices and brews your healers are using and see if I know anything that can help. Is there nowhere we can send for aid?”

He glanced at her and saw that she knew there wasn't, but shook his head anyway, since she’d felt the need to ask the question. “We may get a few people trickling in who can help, but it's not as if we can petition the Circle to send us some healers.”

“Magic isn't the only way to heal, just the fastest,” replied Lavellan. “What about other sources? Are there schools for other kinds of healers we can apply to? Even apprentices would be something, and could ease the load on Adan and whatever mages we have.”

Cullen shook his head again, pausing to hold open the big chantry door for her. “If we had more influence, we might be able to recruit at such places in Denerim or Val Royeaux, but as it stands most of our influence is among the country folk we’ve been protecting from demons, rogue mages, and templars. The healers there seldom have more than one or two students at a time, like Adan.”

“And they’re badly needed where they are,” Lavellan muttered thoughtfully. 

“You seem very concerned,” Cullen observed. He hadn't thought her so invested in their cause.

“The Dalish do not send our hunters out without support, nor leave them to languish from their wounds,” Lavellan said tersely. “And I am not one who can watch suffering without action. Where will your army be, Commander, if your men die from lack of care? What good will the Inquisition do if it cannot even look after its own?”

“I do not need you to lecture me on what my men suffer,” Cullen retorted. “I know it well, I assure you.”

Lavellan opened her mouth to respond and then stopped, taking a deep breath. “Of course,” she said after a moment. “Forgive my harsh words, Commander. I know well the frustration of trying to do much with little and I don't mean to lecture you.”

“Well,” Cullen said, finding he couldn't be really angry with her when she seemed so honestly concerned, “I suppose it is your turn.”

She laughed at that, short and sharp but it made him smile. “Well. Now we’re even, aren't we? Perhaps we can discuss a solution more amicably.”

“I welcome any advice you can give us,” Cullen told her. “But I fear that the best thing we can do is spread the Inquisition’s influence and deal with that.” He waved a hand at the Breach. “If that doesn't bring the support we need to get a full complement of healers then nothing will. In the meantime, keeping the healers we have well supplied must be a priority. Trade lines have been a problem. Haven is very isolated. The roads have improved significantly since the temple was discovered, but between the explosion and the chaos of the war, finding people willing to bring trade up here is difficult.” He sighed, his frustration showing on his face. “We haven’t so many soldiers that I can afford to send them out shopping, nor to guard servants who go out to gather supplies.”

Lavellan chuckled a little and he raised his eyebrows. “Sorry,” she shrugged, still grinning. “It’s just--welcome to the life of the outcast, Commander. These are problems the Dalish face every day, but hopefully that means I can help there. I’ll stop by your tent later, we can discuss strategies for getting what you need. In the meantime, I’ll bring in what I can myself.”

“That would be appreciated, Herald.” Remembering his conversation with Rylen, he added, “I understand you’ve already been a great help with the supplies. Thank you for taking the time.”

“Thank you for speaking with me, Commander,” Lavellan said, putting a hand on his arm. He tried not to flinch. “I know you’re very busy and I appreciate you taking the time to discuss the problem with me, even if there is nothing more that can be done.”

“Of course,” Cullen said, and Lavellan turned away. Cullen lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as he watched her go, feeling vaguely unsettled. For a mage to so casually touch a templar--former templar--was rather unusual. 

“A copper for your thoughts, Commander.” 

Cullen jumped. “Maker’s breath, Leliana!”

“My apologies,” she said, but he could hear the laughter in her voice. “I was just wondering what you thought of that little encounter.”

He didn’t bother to question why she’d been listening. “I hardly know,” he admitted. “I’ll admit I haven’t known her for very long, but she just--never seems to be what I expect.”

“Perhaps that is because she isn’t what you expect,” Leliana suggested, folding her arms as she looked towards where Lavellan had paused to speak with Threnn. “I understand your concerns. But you must remember, Seriana was a circle mage. She learned early on that the Circle could be an ugly place and so she wore her power as openly as she could. It gained her respect and safety but it also isolated her. I didn’t know Hawke as well, but my instinct is that she may have had an innate tendency towards aggressiveness, but she cultivated it once she realized it kept people at a distance. As an apostate, and as powerful as she was, people were probably already uneasy around her without realizing why. Being so pushy gave people a reason for their uneasiness, so that they were less likely to look too closely. But our Herald is different. She had no need to hide, but neither was she surrounded by those who were her equal in power. An entirely different approach was required, and that is why she seems so surprising to us.”

“What you’re saying,” Cullen said, shifting his weight back and resting his hand on his sword hilt as he considered, “Is that she’s learned not to show too openly what she is, so that she doesn’t frighten people.”

“Yes and no.” Leliana shook her head slightly. “You’re still thinking like a templar. You say that as if her intention is to deceive, to convince people she is not dangerous when she really is. Yet she is accomplished, in control of her power, and she is not a maleficar. She is in fact, not dangerous, any more than any other warrior in perfect control of their weapon. Perhaps if you stop looking for the double motives behind her action, you will stop being surprised at them.”

“Strange advice to come from you of all people,” Cullen said, and then regretted it as unkind. “But thank you. I will think on what you’ve said.”

“I know you will,” Leliana said with a smile, as she passed by towards her own pavilion. “Consider also if more mages might be like her if they weren’t raised to fear both themselves and the world.”

Cullen rolled his eyes as he turned away. He and Leliana had gone over their differences of opinion on mage rights many times by now but she remained steadfast in her belief that mages should be free. She had been there when the Wardens took back Kinloch Hold. She had seen the aftermath of the chaos in Kirkwall. If that wasn’t enough to convince her, he doubted any words of his would do so.

As he continued back towards his command tent he glanced once more back at Lavellan, thinking again of Cassandra’s words. He wondered what Cassandra had seen out in the field with the Herald, what made her think Lavellan could walk in the steps of heroes. 

Well. Time would show. For now, he had work to do.


	3. Not Again

“Is that clear, Scout Pelane?” Cullen took a step forward, towering over the young man in front of him. He felt a little sorry for the public humiliation, but the point needed to be made and Pelane had been unfortunate to make his remark not only where Cullen could hear, but near enough the practice ground for the other recruits to get an earful of his reprimand.

“Y-yes, sir,” the man said, white as a sheet beneath his cowl.

Cullen turned away slightly, folding his hands behind his back and making sure his voice was audible to all those watching. “We are all part of this Inquisition. All who serve deserve our respect, no matter their role or their race. I will not tolerate anything less.” He turned back to the shaking scout. “Dismissed, Scout Pelane.”

“S-sir!” Pelane slapped his fist to his chest in salute and made a hasty retreat.

“Well?” Cullen barked, turning back towards the gawking recruits. “What are you all staring at? Back to work!”

There was a clatter of gauntlets against breastplates and Cullen felt a grim satisfaction. Word of this would be all over the camp by sunset, reinforcing Rylen’s efforts.

He'd barely taken two steps toward his tent when a commotion at the gate caught his attention. Turning back, he saw Cassandra and Silas supporting a sagging Lavellan between them. A jolt of fear went through him, and he sprinted past the soldiers that had turned once more to gape.

“What happened?” Cullen demanded as he reached them. He helped Solas lower the Herald gently to the ground. Cullen turned her face so he could look into her eyes. Her eyelids fluttered, her eyes moving but not seeing.

“A templar ambush,” Cassandra said shortly, putting a hand to her side. “On the trail back to haven.”

“She’s been drained, badly,” Solas said, putting a hand on her forehead. “She’s using more mana to stay alive than she can replenish. If we don’t rectify the imbalance, she will die.”

“You,” Cullen barked at a lieutenant. “Get to Threnn, tell her we need lyrium, now!”

The lieutenant took off at a run, but Cullen didn’t have much hope that he would be in time. “What can we do?” he asked Solas, but the elf shook his head.

“I don’t have enough mana to help her,” he said, his frustration coming through his voice for the first time. “We exhausted what supplies we had left just getting her here alive. If she doesn’t get lyrium immediately she will die.”

“That is unacceptable,” Cassandra said, her brows drawing down.

“Your angry face isn’t going to help,” Varric muttered. “Unless you can use it to get the quartermaster to move any faster.” At the suggestion, Cassandra lurched to her feet. “Whoa,” Varric said, stepping back out of the way as Cassandra nearly fell back to her knees. “Hang on, Seeker, you’re wounded too.”

“Shut up, Varric,” she growled, limping past him.

“We’ll carry her,” Cullen said, moving to gather the half-conscious elf into his arms. “Maybe we can meet the runners halfway.”

“Or miss them altogether,” Solas protested.

“Well what do you--” Cullen began hotly, but cut off as someone dropped to their knees beside him, armor clanking.

“Ser!” A gauntleted hand shoved a familiar vial in front of his face. Cullen lifted startled eyes to the face of the templar who now knelt beside him, a vial of lyrium in his shaking hands. “She can’t die,” the young man said, his hand shaking harder. “Take it, please.”

Cullen took it. “Thank you,” he said seriously, understanding the man’s sacrifice as few did. “I’ll see it replaced.” He pulled the cork with his teeth, and it took every ounce of his discipline and the sight of Lavellan’s pale face for him to push aside the sudden burning thirst in his throat. He handed the vial to Solas, who took Lavellan’s chin in his hand and tipped the glowing liquid into her mouth carefully.

“Drink, lethallan,” the elf ordered, covering her mouth before she could spit out the precious liquid. “Drink it,” Solas repeated more forcefully, followed with a command in elven, and Cullen saw her throat move as she swallowed. She took the second swallow more easily, and in moments the vial was empty. Solas put his hand on her forehead again. “Better,” he said in a clipped tone, relaxing, and Cullen could sense the weak flare of mana as well. He breathed a slow sigh of relief. “She still needs treatment,” Solas continued. “But I believe she’s out of danger for the moment. We can move her inside.”

Relieved murmurs went up all around them, and Cullen became suddenly aware that they had gathered a crowd. “Yes,” he muttered, glancing around. “I think that would be best.” He leaned forward and lifted the Herald, a little surprised at how heavy she was. She looked as though she might blow away in a stiff breeze, but she felt solid and real in his arms.

Cullen settled her carefully and then glanced at Solas, who picked up Lavellan’s staff. “Are you injured?”

“No, just weakened,” Solas said, and now that Cullen was paying attention he could see the mage’s weariness. “We were taken quite by surprise, but I was at the back of the group. However I suggest that someone find Cassandra before she bleeds out somewhere inconvenient.”

“I’ll go,” Varric said. “Hopefully she’ll see reason once we tell her her precious Herald is all right.”

Cullen looked at the templar who had given up his lyrium vial. “Go with him. Let Threnn know you’re owed another ration. Varric can be your witness, but if she gives you any trouble, send for me. Then find Captain Rylen and have him work with Leliana’s people to make sure there are no more surprises in our backyard.”

“Ser,” the man, who was quite young, probably just initiated into the order when this mess began, and still pale-faced from the effort it had taken to give up that vial, saluted. Cullen’s eyes roved once over the few other templars in the gathered crowd. None would meet his eyes.

“Let’s go,” Cullen said, turning towards the stairs.

“This should not have happened,” Solas said to him in an undertone as they walked. “She walked right into that templar’s attack.”

“What do you mean?” Cullen asked, keeping his voice low as well.

“I mean that our Herald is an excellent fighter when faced with forest creatures, and even demons, but she is woefully inexperienced at fighting thinking, coordinated enemies. I doubt she has ever faced any enemy more intelligent than a village mob. She is competent when fighting other mages, probably from training with her Keeper and Second, but she is certainly no match for a templar trained to kill mages. When we were attacked, her instinct was to engage, staff to blade.”

Cullen looked at him, horrified. “That’s suicide.”

“Yes,” Solas agreed. “And if the templar she faced hadn’t been so wholly unprepared for such an insane course, things might have gone very badly. Commander, if the situation is not rectified immediately, she will not survive to fulfill whatever glorious destiny Cassandra has in mind for her.”

“I understand,” Cullen said, sighing through his teeth. “I’ll find someone to work with her.”

“Cannot Cassandra train her?” Solas asked.

Cullen looked doubtful. “Seeker abilities are similar to templars but their training is different. Cassandra is also very personally invested in the Herald, as I'm sure you’ve noticed. I'm not sure she's the best choice.”

“I see your point,” Solas replied. “But you may find it difficult to select a trainer the Herald will accept. Are there any women you would trust?”

Cullen frowned. “There are some in the younger recruits but no one experienced enough to teach her without danger.”

“That may be a problem,” Solas said. “It is a great deal to ask any mage to willingly put themselves into a templar’s power. To ask an elven woman to trust a human man with that power is...difficult.”

“Ah,” Cullen said, his face hardening. “I understand.”

“I greatly doubt it,” Solas said dryly. “But so long as you see my point, that is sufficient.”

Cullen, not for the first time, restrained himself from punching the mage in the face. He carried the Herald to her quarters, and Adan appeared shortly afterward, muttering oaths beneath his breath as he shoved his way into the room without ceremony.

Cullen excused himself and went to gather the Inquisition council, to discuss the issue of training Lavellan. The conversation, which ultimately took multiple meetings that lasted several days, was long and occasionally tense, and it was with a certain trepidation Cullen went with Cassandra to speak to Lavellan about the issue. With Adan’s treatment she had recovered quickly, and they found her on her feet and fully ready to continue her duties.

Lavellan listened to their proposal with quiet thoughtfulness. Cullen let Cassandra present it, keeping himself in the background, but he was aware her eyes were on him, measuring, the whole time that Cassandra was speaking. He was not entirely happy with the conclusion the council had come to, but he couldn’t put forth any real arguments against it. For the moment, his templar abilities were intact, he was experienced at training recruits (his protests that those recruits had not been mages had been disregarded, as any templar they chose would be similarly handicapped) and he was one of the few people they could be absolutely, positively certain would not be swayed to harm the Herald under the guise of a training accident, either through outside influence or personal prejudice. He had given in grudgingly at last, aware that they were right and he was the best choice. Despite his personal misgivings, he knew if he shirked this duty and put the Herald in lesser hands that failed, her death would be on his head.

The council trusted him, but the real question was whether Lavellan was willing to put her life in his hands. She had frowned deeply when the idea was proposed, but now simply stood, arms folded, looking at him while Cassandra explained why they felt this was necessary.

She was silent for a long moment when Cassandra finished. Cullen met her gaze as steadily as he could. Her eyes were such an odd color for an elf. Most elves he’d met had green or hazel eyes of one shade or another, but Lavellan’s were a pale blue, made eerie by the way they reflected the flickering candlelight.

“Very well,” Lavellan said at last, in her quiet way. “I accept your assistance, Commander. When shall we begin?”

No one truly moved, but it felt as if everyone in the room had taken a collective sigh of relief.

“In a few days,” Cullen replied. “Josephine prefers that we keep this as private as possible, and it will take some time to set up an indoor arena we can use.”

She didn’t roll her eyes but looked as if she wanted to. Cullen sympathized. He felt Josephine’s scruples were rather silly but she left him to his job so he tried to do the same. “I must also work with my lieutenants to redistribute some of my own duties for a time,” he added, to soften her annoyance. “I’ll inform you when all is prepared.”

Lavellan nodded. “Thank you for taking the time, Commander. I do appreciate it.” She smiled wryly. “Though I have no doubt I’ll be cursing your name before the end of the first day.”

He returned a sardonic grin of his own. “I’ll do my best, I assure you.”

“I look forward to it,” she said, smile deepening to something more genuine, and Cullen could think of nothing to say to that. He excused himself awkwardly and went to find Rylen.

The workers moved quickly, and within the few days promised Cullen was inspecting a small enclosed sparring ring. It made him a little uncomfortable, truth be told, but there were windows cut around the top near the roof, letting a much-needed breeze through, and that was enough, he thought, to make the place bearable. He had no doubt Leliana’s people would be watching somehow, they always were, but at least the casual observers should be kept out.

Cullen met Lavellan there the next morning, both of them armed and armored. Cullen outlined the training program he’d put together and Lavellan nodded her approval, but there was one more concern Cullen wanted to address.

“I wanted to make sure, before we begin, that you are entirely comfortable with this,” Cullen said. “If you would prefer to have Solas or another of your companions present, I have no objection.”

Lavellan snorted softly. “No, thank you, Commander, let’s keep my humiliation as private as possible, please.”

“If you’re sure,” Cullen said reluctantly, and Lavellan gave him a sharp look.

“Commander, if _you_ would prefer to have someone else present--”

“No, no,” Cullen cut her off, and then decided the direct approach was best. “It’s just that Solas suggested you might have some concerns about putting your safety in the hands of a human man.”

Lavellan’s eyebrows shot up. “Ah. Well. I appreciate Solas’...consideration, I suppose. I hate to disappoint you both, Commander, but I’m not at all afraid of you.”

Cullen blinked. “I’m relieved to hear it,” he said, entirely sincerely.

Lavellan cracked a smile. “I admit I am anticipating a fair amount of pain in this process, but I have no concerns about my personal safety with you. The clan is...very protective of us, the mages I mean, as a rule, and while there are those among the Dalish who have suffered as Solas imagined, I am not one of them, thanks be to the Creators.” She softened slightly. “We haven’t known each other very long, Commander, but I believe you to be an honorable man. Am I wrong?”

“No,” Cullen said solemnly. “You have my word, I will not hurt you.” He shrugged slightly and smirked. “No more than necessary, at least.”

Lavellan actually grinned. “Now that that’s out of the way,” she set her feet, swinging her staff into a ready position, “Shall we begin? I await your instruction, hahren.”

Cullen cleared his throat. “Yes, of course.” He put on his helmet, readied his shield, and drew his sword. The action steadied him and he took a slow breath, years of discipline asserting itself. This was what he was made for, after all, and he hoped Lavellan was prepared. All joking aside, regardless of his care, this was almost definitely going to hurt. Still, better his hand than the enemy’s. He gave a formal salute with his bread and fell into a combat stance. “Begin!”

They met nearly every day after that as their duties permitted, at whatever hour of the day they could both find time, and while Cullen made certain not to show it, he was deeply impressed with Lavellan as a trainee. There was no complaining, there was no answer to any rebuke other than “Yes, haren,” (though for all he knew that was Dalish for ‘yes, you ass’) and miracle of miracles, she actually applied his corrections. Cullen had trained a lot of recruits over the years, first for the Kirkwall templars and now with the Inquisition, and he had never had a student who united all of these qualities.

And she learned fast, which was a comfort as she couldn't entirely give up her duties outside of Haven. He worried every time she rode out, though, knowing she wasn't ready, but as Cassandra was now both prepared and determined to protect her, he tried not to dwell on it too much. Cullen was already planning the next stage of training. Having had a taste now of what she could do, he was curious to see her lead a group. He had a feeling her progress there would be even more rapid, if she had any head for tactics at all, and surely she must have received some kind of training in that area already based on her behavior in the war room.

One thing was for sure, despite the number of times he had flung her into the dirt the last few days, his respect for her and confidence in her ability to do what they needed done was growing rapidly. She had not only made good on her promises to keep his healers supplied, but had convinced Mother Giselle and her small cadre of healers to join the Inquisition, as well as at least one experienced Circle healer she had come across in her travels.

There was something about fighting her, too, that made him feel more at ease. It was not uncommon for warriors to bond when they faced each others’ blades, but he hadn’t expected to experience that facing a mage. They were a different class in his mind. He was learning now that one could be a mage and a warrior as well. She was not what he expected, to the extent that he had expected anything, which he hadn’t, really. He just thought a Dalish would be...grouchier? More like Solas, really - smug and superior and above it all, with a touch of wildness or barbarism here and there.

Well, she was perhaps a little wild at times, he thought as she leapt from the shadows with a battle cry that ensured he would never refer to her as “soft-spoken” again. Her elven eyes glinted with reflected light, and suddenly he better understood the tattoos and the dark makeup she wore around her eyes. She was terrifying in her vicious attack, and any fumbling village human, or even a trained warrior, ambushed in the dark by her in a land she knew and they did not, faced with what must seem a wild magical assault, would not even be able to describe their attacker beyond the outlandish tattoos and elven eyes - a description that would hardly help any authorities in identifying one Dalish out of a whole clan.

But though Cullen was taken aback he was neither terrified nor unprepared, and the bout left Lavellan on the ground with her head in her hands. She swayed slightly as she sat up, cursing (presumably) under her breath in her own language. “You’re an excellent teacher, Commander,” she said as he took her upper arm and helped her to her feet. “And right now I kind of hate you.”

“Good, then I’m doing my job,” he said as he guided her to the bench at the side of their small training ring. “Are you all right?”

“I will be in a moment. Would it kill you to let me win once?” she grinned, and he chuckled, not believing for a moment that she was sincere.

“You’d be insulted if I did, and you know it. Besides, it's not about winning,” Cullen told her. “It’s about staying alive until the rest of the group can reach you. If you’re ever in a situation where you have to take on a templar one on one then something will have gone horribly wrong, and you need to be able to hold them off until you can escape or help can reach you. Templars were meant for fights like this, the advantage is all ours at close range. It’s taking me much longer to get to you than it did on the first day. That’s what you should be focused on.”

She gave him a wry look as she sat down, one hand still holding her head. “That’s easy for you to say, but if our positions were reversed you’d be just as hungry as I am to not be the one landing in the dirt for once.”

He chuckled at this accurate assessment of his own competitive nature. “I dare say you’re right. I’m sure you’ll get your revenge once we start the three on three sessions. We’ll be much more evenly matched once you have someone to back you up.”

Lavellan raised an eyebrow. “Templars don’t train to fight mixed groups?”

“They do,” Cullen said, sitting down on the bench next to her and easing his shield off his arm. “Apostates will often take work with mercenary gangs or the like, hoping for some protection in numbers. Sometimes we have to track down a maleficar who’s joined up with a gang of bandits or that sort of thing. But they’re not usually the caliber of warriors you’ll have standing beside you. If for some reason the Order expected to be up against that kind of force, or if they were significantly outnumbered, they would go in with regular military troops. A detachment of templars would be sent to take down the mage and any demons they might summon, while the regular soldiers deal with the nonmagical fighters.” He pulled off his helmet and set it on the bench.

Lavellan nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you for this, Commander,” she said, making a sweeping gesture to encompass the trampled, gouged, and in some places burned ground of the training area. “I don’t mean to complain, you understand. I have no doubt this training will save my life.”

“I would like to say that I hope you never need it,” Cullen sighed. “But to have such hope one would have to be completely out of touch with reality.” He shook his head.

Lavellan let the silence hang for a moment. "Commander, I’ve been meaning to speak to you about something.”

“Yes?” Cullen looked up, surprised.

Lavellan smiled at him, but there was a tension in her that hadn’t been there before. “I'm afraid I've been very rude to you, and I wanted to apologize. I shouldn't have pushed you about the Blight and the Ferelden Circle. It was insensitive of me and I'm very sorry."

"Oh," was all he managed for a moment, taken aback as he was. "Well--thank you. I took no offense, however."

She relaxed. "I'm glad.” She ran her fingers through her hair in a self-conscious motion that put him even more off his guard. “I'm afraid I must look so ridiculous, asking so many questions, but you must understand - my clan was less insular than most, but we still didn't concern ourselves with the details of human politics or history. Now I'm being asked to make decisions that affect so many people who are nothing like my own, and I feel rather at a loss. Top that off with a certain amount of natural curiosity, and well...I'm afraid I've been rather annoying to some people.” She scratched at the dirt absently with the butt of her staff, looking pensive.

It was strange to see her looking so unsure of herself. “I can see how it would be overwhelming,” he said, not without sympathy. “It does you credit that you're trying to learn. If you'd like, I'm sure Josephine has some books--" He cut off as Lavellan waved her hands.

"Believe me, I've got a stack of them in my room," she said drily. "But talking to people is faster, and more natural to me, than reading. I'm afraid the Dalish aren't big on history books. Most of our tradition is oral, passed down by clan storytellers."

"People like Varric, you mean?" Cullen said, a hint of humor in his voice, and Lavellan’s laugh rang out, making him smile involuntarily.

"Not exactly like Varric," she smiled, "Their job is to preserve our history, not embellish it, though I've no doubt it happens." She shook her head slightly, her eyes going distant a moment before focusing on him again. He felt a pang of sympathy. She must be terribly homesick. "In any case, please don't hesitate to refuse to answer or let me know if I've overstepped bounds."

"I shall, but as I said, I've taken no offense." Cullen hesitated. "Would you mind if I ask you some things? I know as little of the Dalish as you do of Ferelden - probably less, honestly."

"I can hardly say no, can I?" Lavellan smiled. "Please go ahead. We're all in the same stewpot together so we might as well get to know each other."

"So you said before, as I recall," Cullen grinned, and for some reason Lavellan dropped her eyes for a moment. "I was wondering about the markings on your face. I understand they have some religious significance."

"They are called vallaslin," Lavellan nodded. "Blood writing, in the common tongue. A clan member isn't considered of age until they receive the vallaslin. The ritual itself tends to vary from clan to clan, but the essentials are the same. When the elders in a clan believe you are ready, you choose one of the elven gods to honor and after a period of preparation and purification, you receive the markings of your chosen god on your face. Which," she smiled, meeting his eyes again,"Sounds a great deal less painful than the actual reality, I assure you. You're expected to bear the pain in silence. It's a great shame to have your ritual halted before completion. It means you’re still a child."

"I see," Cullen said, trying to keep his tone neutral, unable to decide whether he was appalled or intrigued. His eyes followed the complex lines of her tattoo, and he suppressed a shudder at the thought of how long it must have taken to draw all that. He found himself looking at the thin stripe on her lips and wrenched his eyes back to hers. "And what god did you choose? If it's not too personal to ask."

"I wear the marks of Mythal the Protector," she said solemnly, her eyes going distant again, her staff making that half-unconscious motion in the dirt again. “She who calmed the rage of Elgar-nan the All-Father.” She raised a hand to trace the curling lines along her cheekbones. "Cassandra asked me if I couldn't simply add the Maker to the list of gods I worship, like scribing a new spell or strapping on another dagger." She shook her head. "But it's not that simple, is it? I can't just change who I am all in a moment, no matter what people believe or how many believe it. I am sworn to my own gods and my own people, to Mythal and to the service of the clan." Lavellan sighed, her sudden frustration audible. "I can't be the Herald that Cassandra wants me to be. I don't know what happened at the Conclave. I don't know what people saw or who that woman was that supposedly brought me out of the Fade. I can only do my best with the limited information I have." She started to gesture with her left hand, but stopped abruptly, closing it into a fist and leaning her staff against her shoulder to raise her right instead, palm-up, in a slightly helpless gesture. "Just like anyone else, really."

"I don't think you give yourself enough credit," Cullen said, and her eyes snapped back to him, as if she'd forgotten he was there. "To be honest, I had my concerns,” he continued, idly rubbing a thumb against a mark she’d left on his armor. I know you--don't entirely accept the role we've forced on you. You know I’m against bringing the mages in, even though I understand why you might be more comfortable with them than with the Order. But overall I must admit you've been much more open-minded than I expected, and I know as you've said that you're making an effort to understand the issues at stake and choose the best you could."

"No one is ever entirely free from personal bias, I'm afraid," Lavellan said with a rueful shrug. "The templars are a--what do the humans call it? A bogeyman? Something that I've been taught to fear since my magic manifested. Well, before that, even. Yet here you are," she gestured briefly at him, "And I find a monster from my childhood replaced with a good man, who chose this life because he wanted to do good, who occasionally got bored with his training despite his best intentions, and suffered for his service." Cullen looked away, and tried to ignore the heat creeping up his neck. "It’s the same with Iron Bull. And then there’s Solas, who I suppose is a nice enough person if you don’t care at all about manners or humility.”

Cullen choked on a laugh, and Lavellan grinned at him. “Do you know his name is actually the elven word for pride?” she said. “It has to be a name he chose, unless he just came into the world with that air of pompous superiority and his parents felt they had no choice. Or perhaps it’s more of a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

“Solas has been very helpful,” Cullen said, but he couldn’t hide his amusement and she rolled her eyes at him.

“Well, anyway. I’ve seen it proved again and again here that people are people, and whether they are good people or bad people--or even just annoying people--is not defined by where they were born or the career they've chosen. You're too polite to say what you mean, that you've heard the Dalish were insular and cold, perhaps even barbaric and uncivilized, that we cared nothing about the other people of Thedas and you expected me to act accordingly." She tilted her head slightly and smiled at his flush. "But I hope we've both learned better."

"Of course," he replied, the only reply he thought he could make without stuttering. "Forgive me if I offended--"

"You didn't," she said, still smiling. "The Dalish are as imperfect as any other people, and I can't say some of them wouldn't have justified your worries. For my part, I believe that that," she waved her hand vaguely skyward, "Threatens all people of Thedas, the Dalish no less than others. I will reach an agreement with the mages if I can and I will help you seal the Breach. But once this," she opened her left hand to a flare of green light, "Is no longer needed...I intend to return to my people. I'm sorry, Commander, but I can't be your Herald. I'm not a symbol, I'm a person. I have a home and responsibilities, people who depend on me. Perhaps that makes me a fool, to throw away the kind of influence you’ve offered me here but--" She bit her lip, and turned her head away. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to ramble on this way."

"Not at all," Cullen replied, his tone more gentle than he had perhaps intended. "As I said I know you're in a difficult position here. I'm happy to help any way I can."

"Thank you, Commander," she said, turning that smile up at him again, and he hardly heard the rest of what she said. He was suddenly intensely aware of her pale blue eyes, her short hair mussed around her face instead of tamed and slicked back, the natural softness of her voice, the sudden vulnerability he saw in her at the confession of her uneasiness, the fullness of her mouth. It all combined to render him momentarily stupid with mixed longing and horror. He couldn’t move, staggered by the intensity of his desire to kiss her and horrified at the very thought.

He wrenched his eyes away from her and said something inane that he wasn’t fully aware of. Maker, no, he was not going down this useless road again.

He was saved by the appearance of the Seeker at the door of their makeshift arena. Lavellan excused herself and Cullen barely managed to nod as she left. Cassandra strolled over to him, hands folded behind her back. “How is it going?” Cassandra asked quietly, tension in every line of her body. She feared bad news. Happily, Cullen had none to give her.

“Honestly?” Cullen said, firmly setting his mind back to business. “She’s incredible. She’s focused, she learns fast, and she doesn’t argue or complain no matter how hard I work her or how many times I knock her on her--uh, heels. If all our recruits were like her this army would be unstoppable.”

Cassandra relaxed slightly. “That is good. You are satisfied with her progress as well?”

“Yes,” Cullen said, getting up and setting his practice sword and shield back on their rack. “Her staff work is excellent, if highly unorthodox -- which can only benefit her against templars trained to fight Circle mages. With enough time to train and some experience under her belt she’ll be a templar’s worst nightmare.” He frowned slightly. “I hope we’re doing the right thing, Cassandra. Teaching a mage how to combat a templar…”

Cassandra waved away his concern. “As much as we’d like to think it was otherwise, mages have long known how to exploit a templar’s weaknesses. I’m sure even the Dalish have some tricks they’ve learned over the years.”

“I asked her about that before we started,” Cullen said, his frown still in place. “She was...evasive. It sounds like their methods are more about how to hide from a templar than how to fight one. I thought the Dalish used some kind of strange nature magic the Circles don’t understand, but she hasn’t used anything like that on me.”

“Perhaps she does not wish to show her hand too thoroughly,” Cassandra mused. “Which could be a handicap. If she’s holding back on us...well, perhaps I can ask Solas. Maybe the nature magic is just a myth, or maybe it is not universally used.”

Cullen had to hide a smile at the thought of Lavellan’s opinion of Solas. “Well, hopefully if she has it and needs it in an emergency, she’ll use it. I can’t really blame her for not trusting us totally. Perhaps the Dalish have their own laws governing the use of magic that are keeping her from showing it.”

“Very possible,” Cassandra agreed. “Thank you for the report, Commander. I will see you at the war table.”

“Seeker,” Cullen acknowledged as she turned away, his mind already on a wash and a quick meal, and the pile of scout reports on his desk which would keep him from dwelling on things he shouldn’t.

He walked into the war room later that day feeling a bit on edge, but there was much to do and he soon lost himself in the work, until out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lavellan put her elbows on the table and dig the heels of her hands into her eyes.

"Herald, are you unwell?" Cullen asked, concerned, moving around the table to her.

"Atisha," she sighed.

"I'm...sorry?"

"Atisha. That is my name. In the name of all our gods, someone please use it before I forget it myself."

Cullen exchanged a glance with the others. "Atisha, then. Are you all right?"

She lifted her head and gave a tired smile that went straight to his heart. "Thank you. I'm all right, just tired and frustrated."

Cullen studied the tightness around her eyes. "You have a reaction headache, don't you? I've been around enough mages to know the signs," he frowned. "You have been using a lot of magical energy lately, and that thump on the head this afternoon couldn’t have helped. You should have said something. Josephine, put that light out. Cassandra, shield those lanterns, would you?" He went to the door and called a servant. Once his instructions were given he turned back to the somewhat darker room.

"This is not necessary," Lavellan--Atisha--protested. "I can work through it."

"I've no doubt, but you shouldn't suffer needlessly, either," Cullen said, coming back to the map table. "Is it a little better this way?"

"Yes," Atisha admitted.

"Cullen is right," Leliana said. "Please let us know in the future if you are in pain or need to rest."

"You cannot serve the Inquisition at your best if you don't take care of yourself," Cullen admonished, surprised himself at how gently the words came out. There was a quiet knock at the door, and he went to open it, taking the mug the servant held himself and setting it on the table next to her hand. "Here, this will help."

"I...thank you," Atisha said, taking the mug. She sniffed at it and then sipped it gingerly. She glanced up at him and their eyes met, and it hit him again as it had in the training ring - as it had, he now recognized, more than once before that, the heat creeping up his face and a sudden awkward, tongue-tying clumsiness he couldn't explain. Or rather, he could, but he'd thought he had left those feelings behind years ago.

He'd not believed himself capable of feeling this way again, not after what had happened--nor would he have believed he could have chosen a less appropriate subject than the first, yet here he was, blushing and rendered nearly incapable of speech over a simple look of gratitude.

He didn't really want to consider what it said about him that blond elven mages with facial tattoos were apparently his type. _Maker's breath_.

As always, duty was his one salvation, and he wrenched his mind back to it with an effort. "Shall we continue?" he said, turning back towards the map table and trying not to notice the slight smirk tugging at Leliana's mouth beneath her hood. Sometimes it was very trying to be working with such perceptive people. Thank the Maker for Cassandra, who was either as dense as a brick when it came to other people's feelings, or very good at pretending she was. Cullen still hadn't decided which.

Well. They wouldn't have reason to mock him for long. Cullen would not make the mistake he had with Seriana, the mistake of allowing his thoughts to dwell too much on her, to entertain impossible fantasies while telling himself it was harmless because they were, after all, impossible. Like a fool he had nursed his attraction into infatuation and fed it with every glimpse of her, until it became a weakness, a hold for the demons that would later assault his mind.

Those shameful memories hardened his resolve. No, Cullen would not make that mistake again. He would not think of Atisha - of the Herald, any more than necessary.

Fortunately his duty would leave him little time for such contemplations anyway, which had not been true back then, when his primary duty was to stand for hours on end with nothing to do _but_ think. Now he had rank, seniority, and one would hope, sufficient clarity of purpose to keep himself from dwelling on things that could never be - _should_ never be, in fact.

He stared at the map table as the discussion swirled around him, filling his mind with resource lists and troop movements. When the Herald addressed him, he was able to meet her eyes and reply with cool professionalism.

 


	4. Threat Assessment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a little timeline oopsie in the last chapter where I mentioned Dorian before he'd been recruited. It's now been corrected. 
> 
> There's a pretty good time skip between each chapter, I hope that's been sufficiently clear. The down side of not recapping the game scenes is that the story is by nature a little disconnected, but it was always my intention for this to be a series of "in between" moments, so I'd rather be a little choppy than drag things out with a day to day retelling.
> 
> With that said, if it's not clear where and when we are in each chapter then I've failed as a writer and I need to do better.

The sun was well down by the time Cullen headed to his tent, only the eerie light of the breach, campfires, and torches lighting his way. It had taken him most of the day to get arrangements made for the sudden influx of mages, and more were coming, and he didn’t have enough people to watch them all. “Maker’s breath!” He nearly tripped over the figure seated on the steps by the gate, barely managed to move so that he only clipped her side with his boot. He had to trot down the remaining stairs to keep his balance. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said quickly, regaining his footing and turning around to face the body he had nearly flattened. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Commander,” she sighed, lifting her head from her hands, and he blinked as he recognized Lavellan.

“Are you sure?” he asked more gently, taking a step forward.

She gave him a tired smile. “No, not really. Redcliffe was unsettling, as I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Ah,” Cullen said, advancing back up the steps towards her. “May I join you?”

“Please. Hopefully no one else will trip over me with you here.”

He chuckled and settled himself on the step next to her. “I read the report,” he said. “Unsettling seems too tame a word.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen friends die, but even knowing it wasn’t really happening, that we were going to stop it…” She shook her head. “It didn’t make it any better. As that Leliana said, it was real for them. They felt those weapons. I just...I don’t know.” She buried her face in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said. “I don’t know how to make it better.”

“Nothing will make it better,” she said, lifting her head again. “It’s just something I’ll have to endure.” They were silent a moment before she spoke again.

“You were very angry with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Cullen said, looking at his hands. “I know you did your best. I still can’t say I agree with you, but there was no one else to make the choice. You did what you thought was best. I respect that, even if it wasn’t the choice I wanted. I apologize for getting so emotional about it. I can’t promise it won’t happen again. I’ve just seen too much of what damage mages can do, and with that,” he gestured at the breach, “So near...forgive me. I will take steps to protect both the mages and the rest of the village as best I can, and that must be enough for me.”

She turned her face fully to look at him, eyes flickering in the torchlight. “You’ve suffered,” she said with quiet conviction. “Personally, I mean.”

“I have,” he said stiffly, drawing into himself a little.

She nodded, and changed the subject. “As disturbing as things were in Redcliff, do you know what really bothers me the most about all this? The things we’ve seen in the Hinterlands.” She rested her forehead against her folded hands. “Plenty of game but people starving because they’re too frightened to hunt. People dying for a lack of simple blankets. All because no one’s brave or organized enough to do what needs to be done.” She shook her head slightly, without lifting it from her hands. “So much despair. It’s like people have given up. They just wait to die or not die, and they don’t seem to care much which.”

“That’s why we’re doing this, isn’t it?” Cullen said, starting to lay a hand on her back, and thinking the better of it, feeling foolish for the impulse.

“No,” Atisha sighed, finally lifting her head. “That’s why you are doing this. I told you, I’m doing this because I don’t have a choice.” She opened her hand, and the mark flashed brilliant green in the darkness. “These are the kind of struggles my people face every day, and we manage. These problems are shemlen problems,” she murmured. “They shouldn’t concern me.”

“But they do,” Cullen prompted.

“Mmm.” She shook her head again. “How can I see suffering right in front of my eyes and not be moved by it? Especially when it takes so little effort to make such a big difference.”

“It’s hardly a small effort,” Cullen said, drawing his knees up and draping his arms over them.

“Compared to killing demons and closing rifts?” Atisha gave him a sardonic look that was quickly becoming familiar to him. He was oddly comforted by it. “It really isn’t that difficult to kill a few game beasts.”

“I imagine it’s a bit more challenging when you have to fight through rogue mages and templars to get to them,” Cullen pointed out.

“There’s that, yes. I owe you heartfelt thanks, Commander, for your training. It has indeed saved my life more than once over the past few weeks.”

“I’m glad,” Cullen said simply. They were silent for a moment, before Atisha spoke again.

“Keeper Deshanna has always told me that I care too much. There are always needs to be balanced, sacrifices that must be made for the greater good of the clan. She warned me I would bring the clan to ruin trying to help everyone that crossed my path. Not that she wasn’t a kind woman, mind you, it’s just that she’s right. The Dalish must fight for everything we have. We can’t afford to throw away labor and resources that may mean life or death for us later. I’ve always been taught to put my own people first, and I always have, but…” Atisha sighed again, and put her face back in her hands. “Forgive me, Commander, I’m rambling again.”

“Cullen,” he said, and she lifted her head to look at him. “If I’m to use your name you’ll have to use mine,” he told her. “At least when we’re just talking like this.” He hesitated for a moment. “When I was a recruit, there was a boy that was given to the Chantry, a few years before I arrived. Rumor was that he was the bastard son of an Arl. He was…” Cullen shook his head. “He was a mess. He was a capable enough fighter when he put his mind to it but it seemed like he never put his mind to anything. A lot of the nobles were...very cruel to him. They weren’t that fond of me either, at first, I’m just common blood after all.”

“Let me guess,” Atisha smiled. “Within a year you had trounced them all so badly in training that they chose to forget your humble origins.”

“Something like that,” Cullen admitted, not wanting to brag. “I was...very committed. Which Alastair was _not_. He didn’t want to be there at all and I…” he sighed. “I wasn’t cruel to him, but I dismissed him just like the others did. When I arrived I was behind most of the recruits my age. I had enough on my plate, I thought, trying to catch up in training, and it wouldn’t do me any good to associate with someone like him. After all, all he had to do was keep his mouth shut and his head down and he would have been fine. So I didn't concern myself too much with him - until the day came that I found him at the bottom of a furious pile of recruits. I have no idea what he said to provoke them but--I really thought they were going to kill him.

“I broke up the fight and got Alistair to the healers. Fool was still trying to joke, even though he could barely stand, bleeding all over my best set of practice gear. We never spoke about it afterward.” Cullen rubbed his neck and sighed. “Not long after that he was transferred to another monastery closer to the capital.”

Atisha raised her eyebrows slightly, clearly waiting for him to get to the point.

“He was recruited into the Grey Wardens before he took his vows,” Cullen said, very quietly. “He died fighting the archdemon alongside the hero of Ferelden.”

“I remember that,” Atisha breathed. “The rumors were that he was her lover, and he died protecting her.”

Cullen tried not to wince. “Yes, well...imagine if I'd walked away that day and they’d beaten him to death. I'm not asking for any credit for it, mind--I should have done much more for him, a lot sooner. My point is - you never know, do you? I thought he was an idiot and a screwup, who brought all of his troubles on himself, when really if I'd been worthy of the vows I was aspiring to, I would have realized that I was just rationalizing expediency and my own cowardice. The templar washout, and he saved the world.” And the woman they had both cared for. And Cullen himself, though he thought, looking back on his not very clear memories of that time, that Alistair hadn’t recognized him. Small wonder, with fifteen years and what felt like an eternity of torture between the man in the cage and the boy recruit.

“I think you’re a bit hard on your very young self,” Atisha said, her tone more gentle than he'd ever heard. “And clearly you’ve learned better.”

“I hope I have,” Cullen leaned back, resting his elbows on the step behind him. “But the point I intended to make is that it's always easy to make excuses for not doing what needs doing. It's none of my business, they brought it on themselves, besides he's just a mage, or she's just an elf, or it's just a few servants--”

“Or a few shemlen?” Atisha looked down at her feet.

“But you never know what kind of difference you could be making,” Cullen said earnestly. “Maybe none, in the greater scheme of things, but it will still make a difference to that one person.” He shut his mouth abruptly. “I'm lecturing again, I apologize.”

“No,” Atisha smiled, still looking down. “It's a lecture I needed.”

“I guess that what I'm trying to say, with all due respect to your Keeper, is that if we all get caught up in this mindset of protecting our own first - that's what got us into this mess in the first place.”

“Got you into this mess,” Atisha corrected, but it sounded half-hearted.

“That,” Cullen said, pointing at the Breach, “Doesn't care whether we’re human, elven, Ferelden, Orlesian, Tevinter, Andrastian, Dalish, or even Qunari.”

“Now you’re lecturing,” Atisha smirked. “I get the point.” She sighed. “How do you keep from being overwhelmed, though? Caring for a clan full of people is hard enough. Caring about everything outside of that - I can't take the suffering of the whole world on. How do you do it?”

“Is that rhetorical or are you asking me personally?” Cullen raised an eyebrow at her.

Atisha put her chin in her hand. “Both.”

“I try to go where I can do the most good,” Cullen replied. “When I was younger that was the Order. Now it's the Inquisition.”

“The greatest good for the greatest number,” Atisha mused. “I don't know. I've spent most of my life protecting people I've known since I was a child. It was never about the faceless masses for me. But…” She looked down again, making that idle scratching motion with her staff he'd seen her use before when she was thinking. “I looked into a lot of faces recently, faces that were hungry and cold and desperate, people who had been let down by every authority they depended on, and now I can't unsee them.”

“If that's what it takes to make things real for you, then maybe you should embrace that,” Cullen suggested. “I don't know, maybe that's what we need right now. Josephine, Leliana, and I are always thinking about numbers and regions and organizations and countries. Perhaps it's best that you care for the individual people, to balance us out. That does seem to be your gift.”

Atisha smiled, sitting back against the step behind her as he was. “Can I ask you something? You don't have to answer if you’d rather not.”

“I believe that's what we agreed.”

“True.” She turned her head to look into his face. “Do you believe I’m the Herald of Andraste?”

Cullen pondered that for a moment, letting the question echo within him. “To be honest, I don't really know. I believe in the Maker’s mercy,” he said at last. “And I believe that we need you. Beyond that, I can't hope to know the Maker’s will, I can only do what needs doing and trust the Maker to do as he will.”

“I think that's the most comforting answer I’ve received to that question,” Atisha smiled. “Thank you.”

“It must be a great burden,” Cullen said softly. “I don't envy you.”

“Mostly it's just confusing,” she replied. “Why would the Maker choose a Dalish of all people?”

“Maybe he didn't choose a Dalish. Maybe he just chose you.”

“You can't separate me from my entire culture and history just like that!” Atisha said sharply.

“No, of course not, that's not what I--Maker’s breath, how do I say this?” Cullen muttered, frowning. “I don't have Josephine’s gift for words. I suppose I meant that the sort of person he needed could only be found among the Dalish? That's...not quite right either, but--” He sighed in frustration. “Forgive me, I didn't mean to offend you.”

“I can hardly be offended after you’ve taken all this time to sit and talk with me. I'm sure you must have other things you were planning on doing.” She put a hand on his pauldron and then let it slide off. “Thank you, you’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“I'm glad I could be of service,” Cullen said, taking the hint and getting to his feet. “I should return to my duties. And you should get in out of the cold before someone else comes along and falls on you.” He offered a hand. Atisha laughed and accepted his help, allowing him to pull her to her feet. Her eyes flashed in the torchlight and his heart beat a little faster. He dropped her hand like it burned. “Good night, Herald -- Atisha.”

“Goodnight, Cullen,” she replied, traces of laughter still in her face and her voice and Maker the way she said his name felt like a sin.

He beat a hasty retreat back to his tent. He had been doing well, he thought, not thinking of her, but this was the second time she had confided in him, and he was self-aware enough to know these little chats were dangerous to him. He liked to be needed. His instinct to protect had always been strong but when it came to women it sometimes became a bit...primal. Possessive. It had been that way with Seriana, as he stood guard the long nights she spent in the library. It was mostly fantasy on his part, he knew now, but to believe that he was there to protect her, that someone as beautiful and powerful as her had needed him, as he had truly believed back then, had been as enticing as the woman herself. She was his charge to protect and that gave him a claim on her, an interest in her well-being. He had fantasized about little chats like these he had with Lavellan, where Seriana would let down her guard and confess to him how lonely she was in the Tower, how grateful she was for his presence and protection.

Of course, he had been a teenager then, and those fantasies had rarely ended quite as innocently as they began, and he hadn’t seen the harm in that until they were corrupted by Desire. He shuddered at the memory, shame flooding him. Somehow the images that had been so pleasant when confined to his own mind had been horrible, grotesque when acted out for him by the demon, saying, _doing_ things Seriana would never say, would never do, certainly not with him, and even in his unjustifiable anger with her he knew how deeply he'd wronged her in his thoughts. 

He forced his mind away from those memories. 

And now here was Lavellan, lovely and powerful in her own way, and willing to let down her guard with him, to accept his comfort and counsel, to let him stand even a little bit between her and the world that wanted to destroy her--

Very, very dangerous.

But he was a grown man now, in control of himself in almost every way, and he would not let this happen again. If Lavellan needed him, he was duty-bound to give her whatever aid he could, even if it was just a willing ear and embarrassing tales of his own failures. Too much was riding on her for him to turn her away. But he would not make it more than it was. She was far from helpless, and more than that, she was not his to protect in any way. He had no claim on her and wanted none. 

This Inquisition was a chance to prove to himself and everyone around him that he could learn from his past mistakes. He vowed again not to fail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will pick up a bit after this, much as the game does - although if you're here for fast-paced plotty action, you're reading the wrong doc I'm afraid!


	5. Failure

His emotions were roiling as he turned his back on her, unable to watch her walk out of the Chantry doors to her fate. There was too much to process in the moment. Anger, fear, betrayal, horror, despair. He paused, closed his eyes for a moment, and took a breath, shutting it all down. Time for that later.

Cullen straightened and strode into the main hall, calling for his lieutenants. He briefed them quickly, and sent them scurrying to follow his orders.

Leliana appeared by his side. “What can I do?”

“Talk to Roderick,” he ordered. “Then send your scouts to make sure the way is clear ahead. I don’t want to get trapped with all of these people in a tight space.”

“Consider it done.”

“Rylen,” Cullen called, and the man appeared before him.

“Commander.”

“I need a rear guard. No more than twenty. The Herald will distract the beast but there will still be regular troops and those–those monsters to defend against.”  He gripped Rylen’s arm, looked his second in the eyes. “Make sure they understand what we’re asking. Volunteers only. You will not be one of them, understand? I can’t afford to lose you.”

“Yes, Commander,” Rylen said heavily. Cullen nodded, and released his arm. Rylen swore under his breath as he turned away. Cullen couldn’t blame him. He knew Rylen would rather be out there than running, Cullen felt the same way, but they both had a responsibility to the Inquisition that trumped personal honor and feelings.

Cullen turned to the ambassador. “Josephine, make sure these people understand they need to travel light. I will not lose men defending people who dawdle over trinkets, understand? Whatever they left in the village is lost.”

“I will make sure they understand.” Her voice trembled, but her stance was firm as she turned away.

He might have felt a measure of pride if the situation had been less serious. The retreat was more organized than any rout had a right to be, his lieutenants keeping their respective charges organized and in check. Cullen spared a moment to thank the Maker that the mages and templars, having fought alongside one another, had put aside old grudges for the moment. He didn’t dare believe it would last. He only hoped they would make it to safety before it all fell apart.

Then they were running, and he had time to feel again.

Failure was a familiar flavor to him, but the bitterness still sat heavy on his tongue.  He was the commander of the Inquisition’s forces. The safety and defense of Haven was his responsibility.  It didn’t matter how many times he told himself he could never have prepared a settlement like that for an attack of that magnitude. Cullen didn’t need Dorian’s commentary nor Vivienne’s snide remarks and withering looks to tell him he should have done better. He knew it, down to this bones. He had failed.

And as always, it was another who would pay the price for his weakness.  In his mind he saw her, both defiant and resolved, ready to give her life to protect so many others - not because she owed them anything, not when they had imprisoned her, blamed her, practically conscripted her - but because it was the only chance any of them had.  Because of his failure.  

When the trees gave way to snow-covered rock, Cullen scrambled up a boulder and, once atop it, lifted the spyglass he had appropriated from one of the scouts, and trained it back on Haven.

He found her surrounded by fire, pinned between the dragon and the twisted form of the Elder One.  He watched in horror as the strange darkspawn lifted her.  The branching tattoos stood out starkly in her pale face–

_I wear the symbols of Mythal, the Protector._

–and her already large eyes were wide with fear. Green magic sparked and flared in the air around the two and Cullen could not tell if she was trying to use the mark or if the magic came from the twisted creature that held her. If she could not even get to the trebuchets–

He drew in a sharp breath as the Elder One flung her through the air like a rag doll - right onto the platform of the trebuchets.  Relief and sick horror roiled in his stomach.

He turned to give the order, but that strange boy appeared beside him, gripping his arm. “Wait.”

“There’s no time!” Cullen hissed, but even as he looked back toward Haven he could see the soldiers he’d left for a rearguard struggling up through the trees, helped by Cassandra, Solas, and Varric.

“That’s all that will come,” Cole said calmly. “The last three were already wounded, dying. They sent the others ahead and stayed to hold the line.”

Cullen turned and waved to one of his soldiers.  "Send the flare up! Now, send it now!“  He bellowed, and then turned and raised the glass again.

The soldier fumbled for a moment and then Cullen heard the shriek of the signal hurtling skyward just as he found her again.  

He saw her eyes narrow, fear gone, as she stood forward with a sword that was much too big for her. He watched her hiss something at the monster, watched her turn and kick the release for the trebuchet–

And then the ground was shaking, and Cassandra was pulling him down from his perch, snarling for him to get moving.

"You left her?” he demanded, stumbling along through the snow behind her.

“The dragon cut us off, we had no choice,” Cassandra bit out.  

“She would have forgotten the mission in trying to save us if we had stayed,” Solas sounded calm, emotionless, even raising his voice above the wind, and Cullen’s anger welled up inside him.  But this was not Solas’ fault - it was his own, and so Cullen merely pushed forward, focusing on what must come next.  

They travelled as far as they could before storms and exhaustion forced them to camp.  Cullen paced the perimeter, hand on his sword, ignoring all suggestions that he rest.  He kept looking out into the darkness, the blank wall of gray beyond the campfires, though he knew it was useless.  He told himself over and over that he was a fool, that it was incredibly unlikely that she had even survived the avalanche, let alone somehow worked her way free of the slide and made it up here, alone, on foot, without any supplies.

Still his eyes scanned the night, straining for any glimpse of–

A green light flashed at the tail of his eye.  He turned his head and stared hard.  For a moment there was nothing, and then he saw it again.  "Cassandra,“ he bellowed, beginning to run through the thick snow.  He nearly lost his footing, but kept himself upright and plowed forward.  The green light flared again, brighter than before, closer - and then went out.

But he didn’t need it anymore.  He could see her now, on her knees and swaying.  "There, it’s her!” He ran on, and threw himself to his knees in the snow beside her just in time to keep her from collapsing face first in the snow.

“Thank the Maker,” he heard Cassandra say behind him, her own armor jangling as she struggled through the snow.  She helped Cullen stagger to his feet, the half-frozen Herald in his arms.  

_Don’t die_ , he thought at her, as he carried her carefully back to camp. Glancing down at her, he could see her lips were moving, but the wind carried her words away.  He cradled her closer and bent his head down to put his ear by her mouth.

“Corypheus,” she was saying.  "The Elder One.  He destroyed the conclave.  Said it was a ritual…I interrupted.  The mark - he called it the anchor.  Says he was a magister, a thousand years ago…entered the golden city…“

Cullen jerked his head up, his eyes wide.  "That can’t be true.”

His voice seemed to rouse her slightly.  "Cullen–did it work?  Did the people get away?“

"Yes,” Cullen told her, squeezing her a little tighter without realizing it.  "Yes, you did it.  We saw the dragon carry that thing away, but the avalanche stopped the army.  We’re all right, at least for now.“

"Ma serannas Mythal,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.  "Ma melava hallani…Tauren…“ She lapsed into a confused mix of phrases in Common and Dalish that he couldn’t decipher.

"In here,” Cassandra shoved him roughly through a tent flap he hadn’t even noticed.  Cassandra nearly threw the occupant bodily from the place, though the man made haste enough when he saw what Cullen carried.  

Cullen laid Lavellan on the pallet the man had been laying out, jerked his glove off with his teeth and laid his hand along her cheek.  Even to his perpetually cold hands, she felt like ice.  "We need blankets,“ was all the time he had before he was shoved aside and Mother Giselle was kneeling beside him.  "She’s nearly frozen,” he told her, rather unnecessarily.

“Get me someone who can actually do some good here,” she said, nearly shooing him away.  "A healer, an herbalist, something! At the least get me someone who knows where the supplies are.“

Cullen nodded, and strode out of the tent, glad to have something he could do.  "Threnn!” He bellowed into the night.  "Adan!“

"Adan didn’t make it,” someone told him, and Cullen cursed under his breath.

“Then find me his assistant,” he ordered, “Or the servant who brought him coffee, or anyone who might have listened to him for two minutes!”

Solas appeared seemingly out of nowhere.  "They are saying the Herald survived, is it true?“

"In there–go if you can help her,” Cullen gestured.  "If you can’t, stay out of the way.“

Solas nodded and headed for the tent.

Cullen roused everyone out of bed he could think of that might be able to help. No one was actually sleeping, anyway. Whispers followed him, some hopeful at the news the Herald had survived, some doubtful, some pessimistic. He didn’t care. Atisha was alive, his failure not so complete as he’d imagined.

“Is it true?” The Tevinter mage was grabbing his elbow but Cullen didn’t stop walking. Dorian was forced to trot in the snow to keep up with him. “She’s alive?”

“For now,” was all Cullen would say.

“How?” Dorian demanded. “We all saw the slide.”

“I don’t know,” Cullen bit back. “Does it matter?”

“Good point,” Dorian conceded, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself.  “Is she badly hurt?”

“She made it this far under her own power,” Cullen replied, quickening his stride as the tent where he’d left her came into sight.  “But she was very cold.”

“Watch it, Curly!” came an indignant voice, just as Cullen felt his foot catch on something and he stumbled, nearly tumbling right over Varric. “Ow! I know I’m short but I’m not invisible.”

“Maker’s breath, Varric, get out of my way!” Cullen nearly swore at the dwarf, but Varric just reached up and shoved him back with surprising strength.

“No way. The reverend mother put me out here to guard and you’re not going anywhere until you calm down a little. You can’t do any good in there anyway, unless you’ve been studying medicine in your nonexistent free time, and we both know that’d be too much like a hobby for you.”

“Varric,” Cullen growled, but a heavy hand descended on his shoulder, obliging him to back up a step.  He looked up into the surprisingly sympathetic face of Iron Bull.

“Let the healers do their work,” the big Qunari told him. “She’s safe enough,” he jerked his chin towards the tent, and Cullen realized the Chargers had formed a protective ring around the tent, keeping the gathering crowd back. Their lieutenant stood in front of the tent flap, face grim and arms folded.  “Besides,” Iron Bull continued, ”Don’t you have other things to manage?”

Cullen took a deep breath, and looked around at the remains of his army.  “Right,” he said. “You’re right.”  He took one more deep breath, and then turned away to find Rylen and see what else needed to be done for his men.


	6. Regrets and Resolutions

The dawn did come, clear and bright. Cullen had actually slept out of sheer exhaustion, once he had been persuaded to lay himself down, but the nightmares woke him just as the sun, just below the horizon, was lightening the sky. He was up immediately, and walked some distance from the camp, seeking, if not solitude, at least a bit of space. 

Cullen stood looking into the snow-covered peaks that jutted up all around them, and felt nothing. The moment of peace he had felt with the rest of the camp the night before had faded into a numbness that was, while probably not entirely healthy, a welcome respite from the self-hate and frustration he had been mired in before. Yet his mind still traveled in circles around the memory of their flight from Haven, all the things he had seen and heard, and the oddly calm, cool voice of the strange boy echoed through his mind over and over again.  _ The templars come to kill you. _

“Commander.”

He turned, and she emerged out of the predawn dimness like a lost soul come to condemn him, bruised, tired and oddly colorless, a pale form in a white world. Dressed in her drab brown armor, only her ice blue eyes and the bruises that were beginning to turn spectacular shades of green and purple brought reality to her wraithlike appearance.

“You shouldn't be away from the fire,” he said, taking her arm to steer her back toward the camp. Atisha put her hand over his to stop him, and he released her.

“A moment, first. We can't stay here and I need to talk to you about a plan for moving on.”

“Moving on where?” Cullen asked dully. 

“North,” she said, and he stepped a little closer, bending to catch her words through the wind. “Solas knows of a stronghold there he believes we can use, but this is a lot of people to move and I know we have wounded.” She chewed her already swollen lip for a moment. “I think I have a plan to organize the caravan, but what about our fighters? Do we have enough to protect, say, two groups?”

“Maker, you’re bleeding,” he muttered, pulling a cloth from his pocket. She had broken her split lip open. He held her face in one hand and carefully dabbed the fresh blood from her chin, and then pressed the cloth to her lip gently. 

She placed her hand over his. “I'm all right, Cullen.”

He shook his head, unable to speak yet of what had happened. “I have enough men to keep two groups safe from bandits and wildlife, though I don't know that either are a danger up here. If the Elder One’s army, or any significant portion of it catches up with us here in the open, it won’t matter how we’re organized. We won’t be able to make any kind of stand.”

Atisha nodded under his hands. “Then begin planning as soon as you’re able. Best if we don't stay here any longer than necessary.” She hesitated, looking in his face. “Are you well?”

“Don't ask me that,” he replied, still staring at her chin, the bright red staining the grey cloth he still held against her. 

“I'm sorry, Cullen.” 

His eyes snapped to hers. “Don't say that either,” he said, the veil of numbness parting for a moment, searing him with the pain and anger lurking beneath.

She sighed. “Cullen, what happened wasn't your fault. It's only due to your leadership and the training you gave them that as many survived as did.” 

He didn't answer, only carefully moved the cloth away to see that the bleeding had stopped. 

“Cullen,” she said sharply, stepping forward to put her hand on his shoulder. He was still looking at her mouth and the feeling that flooded through him was unexpected and intense. He wrenched his gaze back to her eyes. “Are you with me?” Her tone hardened, ringing unmistakeable with command, and he retreated into formality almost automatically.

“Yes, Herald. I'll make the arrangements at once. Now I must insist you return to the fires. We can’t afford for you to fall ill, or for your injuries to worsen.”

She sighed, and nodded, and left him. 

Cullen was grimly efficient about his task and the first convoy moved out in the morning. Cullen and Leliana went with them, leaving Rylen and Charter in charge of the security of the trailing group. The Herald led with Solas.

In the end it wasn't so much two groups as it was one elongated convoy, thinner in the middle than at the ends, but they were as protected as Cullen could make them and all were moving forward. It would do.

His eyes followed the Herald every time she appeared. It seemed like she was everywhere, calling instructions, checking ropes and ties, demonstrating better, tighter ways to pack supplies. When the terrain permitted, she rode back down the line, checking in seemingly at random with small knots of people, calling for assistance where it was needed most. It struck him that she was more confident here than he had ever seen her before, and it wasn’t until she turned her face up to the sun and he saw the tattoos in stark relief on her pale skin (when had he stopped seeing them?) that he realized that of course she would know how to organize and manage a convoy. 

For himself, it was all he could do not to follow her around like a bodyguard--or a guilt-ridden ghost. He went about his duties as best he could, but there was some part of his mind always focused on where she was, what she was doing, making sure that she was always safe within the protective ring of his soldiers traveling on the edges of the caravan.

“She doesn’t blame you.” 

He ignored the weird boy who had showed up so strangely at Haven’s gates, just another reminder of Cullen’s failure.

“She doesn’t think you failed. It wasn’t something any of you were ready for.”

But they should have been.

“It was her decision, her choice. There was no one else. There was nothing you could have done. You couldn’t have stood against the Elder One. Not even if you hadn’t stopped.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Cullen muttered.

“It’s the truth. Not one of the lies you tell yourself so that you can keep going. You don’t need those anymore.”

“Go away,” Cullen ordered.

“She’s alive. It’s all right to believe it.”

“Leave me,” Cullen snarled, and turned, but there was no one there.

Maker, maybe he was finally losing his mind. He ran a hand down his face. If ever he had needed proof that leaving the Order was the right decision, he'd seen it at Haven. And he'd defended the Order, even after the shameful scene in Val Royeaux. Now he felt again that sensation of having no ground beneath him, a sick swooping in his gut born of the dissonance between what he believed the world to be and the reality before him. In Kirkwall, after Meredith’s fall, he had resolved that first by narrowing his focus to only what was in front of him, to making the templars in Kirkwall as near to what they were meant to be as he could, one recruit, one command at a time. When that had not been enough, he had left the Order and joined the Inquisition. And now, here he found the Order fallen even further than he had believed in his most desperate moments. What could have happened to have turned the Order so totally against its purpose? 

Cullen knew the same question was on Leliana’s mind, and that was something of a comfort. She looked as grim as he did and she  _ would _ get answers. He knew she was blaming herself for Haven’s loss, just as he was. It was her responsibility to make sure they weren't taken by surprise, just as it was his to make sure they were prepared for whatever might have come against them. They had both failed. Whatever differences he had with Leliana, they had this much in common: they both hated failure, and they both felt the weight of the lives under their care. He would speak to her as soon as they got wherever they were going. This was an instance where he might have contacts that she did not. They would need to work together to find out where this all went wrong. The ache of lyrium-hunger in his stomach grew stronger when he considered it, sharpened, perhaps, by the longing for certainty, for purpose, that the cool blue fire of lyrium tempered into power. Part of his mind shied away from the truth, part of him didn’t even want to know how bad it really was, but this was far, far too important. They could not afford to turn a blind eye. 

His gaze found Cassandra, sunlight glinting bright on the Seeker’s armor, and he took a deep breath of cold air to cool the bitterness that surged in him. It was unfair to blame Cassandra; she had done so much for him and he considered her a friend, but Cassandra was the only Seeker in sight and so he allowed himself to fix his gaze on the Seeker’s eye emblem and hate it, if not her, for just a moment. Wasn’t it the Seekers’ job to prevent this sort of thing? Where were the Seekers while the Order spiraled into this red madness? But, again, Cassandra was likely wondering the same thing, and she was better equipped to find answers than he was.

It felt like every institution in Thedas that was meant to stand for right, to defend the will of the Maker, to guide the people, to protect the weak, had failed so utterly and completely that there wasn’t a force in Thedas that could save them now.

The Herald passed before him again on her way to the front, Solas at her side. Cullen’s eyes followed her as if magnetized. He watched her scramble up a rise ahead of them and then disappear over it. A moment later, she appeared back at the top, practically slid back down the hill, and jogged first to Leliana, and then to Cullen. Her eyes danced, and she was clearly working to keep her expression neutral. 

“Join me,” was all she said, and Cullen quickened his pace to keep up with her as she turned back. Leliana paused to wait for them, and the three struggled up the slope to where Solas was waiting.

“Maker’s breath,” was all Cullen could say, staring at the giant stone fortress that rose from the jagged peaks.

“I thought that might cheer you up a little,” Atisha grinned, squeezing his arm in the narrow space between his armor plates.

“We must make haste,” Leliana said, calmly, but there was hope in her voice. “Now that we know where we’re going, my scouts can run ahead to find us a path, and prepare a safe entrance for us.”

“Do it,” Atisha agreed. She looked at Solas. “Thank you.”

Solas acknowledged her with a slight nod.

“Let’s get moving,” Atisha said, back to business, though her smile flashed wide and bright beneath her wounds, just for a moment.

News of a destination, a true refuge, spread quickly, and the convoy’s sluggish motion picked up. Leliana’s scouts knew their business, and with some quiet suggestions from Solas, found them a path. Cullen found himself benefitting as well from having a goal in sight, something to put his mind to, and his eyes fixed on Skyhold every time it became visible, analyzing and planning, his mind full of lists and priorities, and beneath it all, a sense of wonder that he couldn’t shake.

Then they arrived and he was too busy to think of anyone or anything except the tasks before him, until Cassandra appeared at his elbow and summoned him to a meeting. He followed her to one of the few rooms they had cleaned out, smaller and stuffier than he liked, with narrow windows that somehow managed to make the place drafty without diminishing the enclosed feeling of the space. He bit back his discomfort and went inside. Leliana and Josephine were already standing there, but the Herald was noticeably absent.

Cassandra stepped past him, put her hands behind her back and looked around at them all. Then she took a deep breath and seemed to steel herself. “I propose that we make Lavellan our Inquisitor, effective immediately.”

For a long moment no one said anything. The thud of Cullen’s boots on the stone sounded loud as he walked over to lean next to one of the slit windows, looking out into the courtyard.

In the silence, he allowed himself to think, as he hadn’t for years, about Seriana Surano, the Hero of Ferelden. Her hair had been darker than Lavellan’s, a deep honey-blond, long and usually piled up in a knot on the top of her head. Her features were more classically elven than Lavellan’s as well, defined and elegant, enhanced rather than marred by the tattoos that flowed from her chin to her temples in sharp, intersecting lines. Despite her beauty she had carried herself like a warrior, with none of Vivienne’s mincing elegance. What Vivienne achieved through politicking and intimidation, Seriana commanded through power and sheer presence, even as an eighteen year old apprentice, short and slender. She was blunt, she was aggressive, she was aloof. 

He wondered what she would have achieved if not for her spectacularly poor choice of friends. She hadn’t had many, focused and dedicated as she was, divorced from the Ferelden Circle’s more hedonistic tendencies. She had a reputation as a cold fish and perhaps it was Jowan’s absolute disinterest (feigned, Cullen had been sure then, and still was) in getting under her robes that had led her to accept his friendship. Or maybe she was just lonely, he thought with a sigh, remembering nights when he had stood guard in the library as she poured over maps and travelogues. Had she been happy, he wondered, in those moments between battles as she traveled across Ferelden, seeing the places on those maps come to life? He couldn’t help a twinge of envy as he thought of it and remembered Alistair, the once-templar recruit who had traveled with her and, according to Leliana, won her heart. 

But Alistair had given his life to save her and Cullen swallowed his unreasoning jealousy of a dead man and the woman he had long ago ceased to think of with anything except shame. He felt that he had been unjust to Seriana from the moment they met, in different ways. It pained him to remember, but he forced himself to think about her face, when she had faced him in the cage, and later before she left the tower, standing before all of his rage and cruelty with a quiet mildness that was entirely unlike the woman he had known. 

He had been angry at her for a long time, even after he admitted to himself that his anger was unreasonable. In that moment, standing in Skyhold among the ruins of the Inquisition she had been meant to lead, he forgave her from his heart for not being here, and every other wrong, imagined or otherwise, she had ever done him.

Lavellan was not much like her. Older, for one thing, than Seriana had been then, though they were probably much of an age now. He could recognize now, looking back, the impatience and arrogance of youth in Seriana’s blunt straightforwardness. Lavellan was more cautious, more mature in her responses and her deliberations, less impatient and emotional. And though he could feel the impressive power scintillating under her skin when she cast, though her favored element was lightning, flashy and frightening, when she was not actively using magic her power was subtle, controlled, contained. 

He remembered what Leliana had pointed out to him, that Atisha was an apostate, living with people who knew she had magic but who were not themselves mages. Seriana’s power was a safeguard, her aggressive attitude both a challenge and a defense against the power struggles in the Circle. Atisha, however, could gain nothing by such blatant display, would have risked, in fact, frightening and alienating those she was sworn to guide and protect. She was gentler, more approachable than Seriana because that had been what she trained to be. And while Seriana had certainly been the person Ferelden needed, the person who could strongarm the quarreling factions into cooperation, lead the uneasy alliance of races, and conquer the archdemon...perhaps he had been hasty in dismissing Atisha. The Inquisition’s goal was not to conquer or destroy, but to protect, to shelter, to bring order and peace back to the lands. Perhaps, in light of those goals, it was just as well that Leliana hadn’t been able to track down the Hero of Ferelden. Perhaps Atisha was the hero they needed now - a mage who need not flaunt her power, who had no resentment for the freedoms of the common people and the fear that kept mages confined, one who was trained to nurture and protect, not to destroy. He thought of all he had seen on the journey from Haven.

“I was wrong,” he said into the silence.

Though his back was to the room he felt it when they all turned to look at him. “What?” Cassandra asked.

“I was wrong, when I said she wasn't like Seriana or Hawke,” Cullen clarified. “That she didn't have that leadership charisma. She does, she just doesn't parade it about. She shows it in smaller ways, saves it for when it's going to make a difference. The rest of the time, she just steps back and lets other people take the limelight.” He shrugged slightly, turning at last to face his comrades. “Watch her, sometime, when she talks to the soldiers or the wounded. She makes it about them, makes them feel important. They forget who she’s supposed to be, but then she leaves and they remember that they were just talking to the Herald of Andraste.”

“And in that moment their whole perception of the encounter is changed,” Leliana said thoughtfully. “She knows how to manage people too. She's polite to Josephine, blunt with Cassandra,” she paused to grin at Cullen, “And she flirts with you. She knows how to make that personal connection.”

Cullen shifted uncomfortably, not sure he liked that characterization. 

“I believe she can do this,” Cassandra said. “I believe she can make the decisions that we cannot. And I believe it would be best if I stepped down from this council and went back to strict field work. If Lavellan will act as Inquisitor, there is nothing I can add here that one of you can't do better.”

“Are you sure about this, Lady Cassandra?” Josephine asked, her brow furrowing. “You began this Inquisition.”

“That fact alone prejudices me in many cases,” Cassandra pointed out. “I want this Inquisition to be what is needed now, not to conform to some preexisting idea that may no longer be relevant.” She smiled wryly. “Adaptability may not be my strongest quality.”

“You sell yourself short there,” Cullen said, “But your point is taken.” He hesitated. “I, for one, would follow Lavellan,” he said at last, meeting their eyes in turn.

“I agree,” Leliana said immediately, folding her arms. “Her judgement has been sound. The people will follow her. And her very existence in such a position could be a great opportunity to better the situation of elves everywhere.”

“But,” Josephine said hesitantly, “That she is an elf, and a mage on top of it, may damage our position with those in power. They will be far more wary about seeing one who should be beneath them rise to such a position.”

“They can deal with it,” Cullen muttered, leaning his weight on one leg and resting his hands on the pommel of his sword. He was still feeling the effects of the journey here and the thought of some noble getting the vapors at the news of an elven inquisitor raised his sympathies not at all. “She's worth a dozen of them.”

“I'll remind you of that when you wish to know why there are no funds for your soldiers,” Josephine said drily.

“I know you can find an angle to make this work, Josie,” Leliana said. “I think it's worth the effort. There will be those impressed by the tales that spread from the battle at Haven, and that will give us a start. Others will fall into line as the Inquisition continues to be a stabilizing force. The more so if the Inquisitor is personally present to restore order as much as possible.”

“Very well,” sighed Josephine. “If Lady Pentaghast is firm in her decision to step down--”

“I am.”

“--then I agree.”

“It is decided then,” Cassandra declared. “Spread the word, and gather our people in the courtyard by the main square. When she wakes, we will proceed.”

“You’re not even going to ask her first?” Cullen raised his eyebrows. “That seems rather unfair.”

Cassandra cocked one back at him. “Josephine’s dramatics have their use. I prefer to minimize the chance of her refusing the position by any means available.”

Cullen rubbed the back of his neck, thinking of Atisha’s determination to return to her clan after the Breach was closed, but ultimately agreed to do his part in their plans.

Cullen’s feelings were complex and numerous as he watched Atisha’s too-thin form heft the Inquisitor’s sword, nearly as large as she was. This was the right decision, he felt sure of it. He felt lighter, somehow, than he had in weeks, a tingling anticipation making him itch to be doing, to turn this momentum into action that would carry them forward in this conflict. 

And certainly there was much to be done. Night came early in the mountains, the sun sinking below the peaks long before Cullen was ready to be done for the day. He straightened from his makeshift desk in the courtyard, and sighed, rubbing his eyes. He had to requisition a proper lamp somewhere in this mess; surely they had something better than these piddly candles. Trying to read reports in this dim light was giving him a headache.

“You should go to her.”

Cullen jumped, and looked at the boy who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere at his elbow. “Maker, Cole, stop doing that.”

“You should go to her,” the boy repeated, head slightly down as it so often was, hiding his face behind the brim of his odd hat-helmet. “You’re the only one who will understand.”

“What are you talking about?” Cullen asked, fighting the urge to edge away from the boy-spirit. In spite of Solas’ assurances, it made his skin crawl to be so near the thing. 

“It doesn’t matter if you don’t like me,” Cole said, as if Cullen had spoken his thoughts out loud. “You won’t remember in a few minutes anyway. She needs you now.” He pointed up at the battlements and Cullen automatically followed the line of his finger. In one of the crenels he saw a darker shadow move against the night sky. “There. She’s up there. She’s strong, and the Anchor makes her bright, but even past it I can feel her hurt now. You can help. Take the stairway by the third tower. You’ll have to skip the broken steps but you can make it.”

“But what--” Cullen began, looking back, but Cole was gone. He stood stunned for a moment, and then, without really understanding why, he began walking to the tower.

The stairway was treacherous where steps had broken and crumbled, but he skipped those steps almost automatically, bent on--what? Why did he feel like it was so important to get up here? The nudging in his mind annoyed him, but he forgot it when he emerged onto the battlements and saw the Inquisitor standing some distance from him, the moonlight turning her pale hair silver. There as an ethereal loveliness about her, slender as she was, silhouetted in moonlight, her pale skin almost seeming to glow-- 

  
He cut that thought off quickly, blinking himself back to reality, and cleared his throat to announce his presence, unwilling to be caught staring at her from the shadows.   
  
She straightened quickly, and turned to look at him. He swallowed, wondering for a moment what he was doing up here, interrupting when she'd clearly sought solitude on purpose. Then his brain caught up with his eyes, and he took a step forward.   
  
"Are you all right?" he asked gently.   
  
"I'm fine, Commander, thank you. Is there something you need?" She asked brusquely, in a creditably steady voice.   
  
Cullen hesitated, and then moved up to stand next to her, near but not touching. "I have two sisters," he said quietly. "I know what it looks like when a woman's been crying. If you would prefer, I will leave you in peace and say nothing, but--if you need to talk, I will listen.”

She smiled crookedly. “You always have.”

There was a softness in the way she looked at him that made him swallow hard and look away. “I know this can't be easy for you," he said.   
  
Lavellan stared at nothing for a moment, half turning away from him, and he waited patiently for her dismissal. "No, it isn't," she said finally, her voice barely audible. "None of this is easy for me." She took a deep breath, and it came out trembling. "You told me that you joined the templar order because you wanted to protect people. Mages and common people alike, isn't that right?"   
  
"Yes," he acknowledged.    
  
"And you value your work with the Inquisition because it allows you to continue doing so, and to do so more effectively."   
  
"More or less," he agreed again.    
  
“Did they teach you anything of magic among the Dalish as part of your templar training?"   
  
"Some," Cullen admitted, "Though it was a very long ago and as I haven't had much cause to use the knowledge, it, ah - doesn't come to mind easily."   
  
Lavellan nodded, folding her arms and leaning back against the wall of the battlements. "A Dalish mage has only one path, and that only if she is lucky. As soon as my magic manifested I was apprenticed to the Keeper of my clan. Eventually I was named First, successor to her knowledge and the leadership of my clan." She sighed. "The Keeper is, first and foremost, a protector. A protector of ancient knowledge, a guide to her people, and a wielder of magic in the clan's service and defense. It is a great responsibility, one that I took on not because I chose it, but because of what I am. So you see," she turned her face slightly to look at him, a smile quirking one side of her mouth, "I am no stranger to what you ask of me. But..." The smile faded, and she looked away. "But these are not my people," she whispered, waving a hand to indicate the fortress. "These are not my ways, and the Maker is not my god. It is to my clan I am sworn, it is to  _ their _ welfare I am bound. They are the ones whom I am meant to protect."    
  


Cullen shifted his weight, rubbing the back of his neck. “I feel as though I owe you an apology. The council’s decision was unanimous. I voted in your favor even though I knew how you felt.”

“Why?” she asked, though she sounded as though she didn't particularly care.

Cullen dropped his hand and straightened his back. “Because you are the best person for the job, and we need you.” He glanced at her. “And you? Why did you stay?”

  
"Because I must!” she burst out, her frustration obvious. "I meant what I said -- Corypheus must be defeated. If he succeeds, my people will suffer, perhaps most of all." She shook her head. "I had less choice in the matter than you, but I don’t regret my role. To protect my people is my purpose, and if Corypheus triumphs--” She shook her head. “ _ We are the last of the Elvhenann. Never again will we submit. _ Yet the Dalish are not an army. We will fight, and we will be slaughtered, our children will be killed or enslaved, and all of the ancient knowledge we have worked so hard to hold onto and protect will be lost.” She lifted her eyes to his. "I can offer no greater service to my clan--to the Dalish--than to take my place in this fight. And so, in the service of my gods and my people, I offer myself to yours. I don’t claim to be divine or chosen or anything like it, but if the Maker can use me to end Corypheus' threat, then I will gladly be his blade--or his Herald, or his Inquisitor, or whatever it takes." She turned her face away and wiped a hand across her eyes.   
  
"Then why are you weeping?" Cullen touched her shoulder.    
  
Levellan kept her face turned away. "Give me tonight to mourn the loss of the life I thought was mine. When the dawn comes, I will take up the Inquisitor's blade once again, and I will not falter."   
  
"That is more than reasonable," Cullen said, his heart twisting at the memory of his own decision. “I once believed my path was set, that I would serve the Maker as a member of the Order until I died in his service or the lyrium took my mind away. It took me a great deal more than one night to reconcile myself to the idea that it wasn't going to turn out that way.” He shook himself slightly. "Forgive me for intruding. With your permission, I will make sure no one else comes up here. You will not be disturbed again."   
  
She turned to him, her eyes shining with wetness, but with a soft smile on her face. "No forgiveness needed. Thank you. For asking, for listening, and for understanding. We began our journeys very far apart, Commander, but I am honored to take now this path with you. It’s comforting to know that this cause is championed by those who are sincere in their faith and their desire to do what is right.” She took a deep breath, and straightened. “May your Maker watch over you, and may the Dread Wolf never hear your steps."   
  
"Maker watch over you, Inquisitor," Cullen said, the words squeezing past the tightness in his chest. "And if it was your gods who sent you to us, I thank them." He brought his fist to his chest in salute, and turned away, trying not to notice how hard his heart was beating.  _ You are hopeless _ , he chided himself.  _ Stop thinking about her _ . As if he had any right - she'd nearly died because of his failures. And if it wasn’t right to think of this before, it was doubly wrong to think of it now, when she was technically his superior. She was the Inquisitor, he was her advisor and Commander of her forces, and that was the end of it.


End file.
